


Flares (Someone's There)

by clexastories



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clexastories/pseuds/clexastories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last time, missiles in the sky had signaled that not all hope had been lost. Now it’s just a blood-red slash, an omen of death and destruction. Clarke digs her heels into the horse’s side, willing him to fly over the terrain–too much terrain–standing between her and TonDC.</p><p>{ Or, where this time Clarke doesn't beat the missile to TonDC. }</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flares (Someone's There)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Can you write a Clexa fanfiction or one shot where Bellamy radios in about the missile but Clarke doesn’t make it in time to get Lexa out. So she finds Lexa severely injured. (Just please don’t kill off Lexa!)

Last time she saw missiles in the sky, they were a flare of hope. Three bright lights shot towards the stars where they used to live, a last desperate message. _We are alive. Come down and save yourselves (save us)._

The sky is the same blue-black it was that night, but everything feels so different. Clarke is alone, on the back of a frightened horse racing through the forest instead of standing firmly on the ground surrounded by her people. She now has blood on her hands and guilt painted so freshly on her soul that she’s afraid it will rub off on anyone she gets too close to.

(Lexa is already covered in black paint, war paint, though–and she knows how to get those types of stains out).

She has to make it in time; she can’t let the Mountain take any more lives, not like this. Not when she has a chance to save them ( _her_ ).

Her heart squeezes painfully when she sees a crimson haze streak across the treetops.

_No. No no–she can’t be too late._

Last time, missiles in the sky had signaled that not all hope had been lost. Now it’s just a blood-red slash, an omen of death and destruction. Clarke digs her heels into the horse’s side, willing him to fly over the terrain–too much terrain–standing between her and TonDC.

She has to make it in time. She _has_ to.

(But she doesn’t).

* * *

Clarke finds her underneath the rubble, barely breathing (but _still_ breathing, thank the stars). A half-dozen hands are there to help her once she screams that _Heda_ needs help, but she can’t look up to see who they belong to. All she can see are Lexa’s closed eyes and the wound on her stomach. 

The gash streaks across her middle like the missile had streaked across the sky: red, violent, deadly. Soot and dirt and smudged paint cover the rest of her, so dark against her pale skin.

_Black to grey to white to red._

The red is on Clarke’s hands now as she tries to put pressure on the wound. Somehow they made it to a tent, but the thick fabric walls aren’t solid enough to drown on the pained, desperate cries and wails of a decimated population. The sound of their grief twines up Clarke’s spine, digging its accusing claws into her nervous system until she practically vibrates with pain herself.

Then Lexa gasps wetly, coughing up more of that _red red red._

All other sounds cease to exist except Clarke’s own voice screaming for disinfectant, bandages, a needle, and a thread.

She couldn’t have stopped this missile, but she can try and stop the wound from spreading more red across Lexa’s stomach.

(And she does.)

* * *

Dozens of stitches and several silent hours later, Lexa wakes with a start. She jerks up, hissing no doubt from the painful bite of her sliced muscles pulled by the tightly sewn thread, and tries to keep herself lifted. Clarke puts a firm hand on her shoulder, though, guiding her back down to the fur-covered bed.

“You’ll undo all my hard work,” she murmurs with a smile. Her voice still trembles, though, and she hates that it does until Lexa softens at hearing her worry. 

If it keeps the commander still, she’ll let concern and fear into every word she speaks. _If it keeps her safe._

After a beat, Lexa’s gaze leaves hers, glancing down at the bandaged wound. Her fingers lightly graze the rough cream cloth. “You did this?”

“I did.”

Lexa’s lips are parted when she slowly shifts her head on the pillow again, but instead of looking up at her, she looks at her hands. Clarke flexes her fingers against the bedsheets instinctively, seeing too late the lingering blood dried into her nail beds.

Then the commander’s calloused hands cover hers, squeezing tightly. “Thank you.”

Clarke merely turns her hand over, palm up, finger dancing along the inside of Lexa’s wrist. It takes her a while to look back up at her, and when she does, Lexa is asleep, breathing easily.

She watches her for a while before her own vision begins to swim. With a yawn, Clarke shifts so that she can gently rest her head on the bed beside the girl’s hip. Her eyes close but her hand stays underneath Lexa’s–not quite holding each other, not yet.

(When they wake, though, Clarke can’t tell which are her fingers and which belong to Lexa because they are so tightly, closely, lovingly intertwined.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to write more of this pairing - send me prompts @ clexastories.tumblr.com?


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